He sat hesitating for a moment, wondering if he should chance the crossing. But there was no shelter that he knew of on this side of the water and he could just make out a light in the gloom on the far side of the ford. One thing that Eadulf had learnt from Fidelma was that a horse was intelligent and left to its own devices would usually find a surefooted crossing. He coaxed the animal forward into the dark waters, and sure enough the crossing was accomplished without mishap.
On the far side, Eadulf urged his mount in the direction of the light. He could just discern that he had joined a wide track, but with dusk now given way to darkness he could not make out what type of countryside he was riding through. All he knew was that he must be moving southward. He could see no stars nor moon. Heavy clouds hung low in the sky creating the blackness. Only the small light in the distance guided him.
After what seemed an eternity, and feeling that the track was beginning to ascend steeply, he arrived at the lantern that was the source of the light and knew that he had reached an inn. Thankfully, he slid from his horse and found a hitching rail lit by the lantern. He felt stiff and cold. He entered the inn and was immediately cosseted by the encompassing warmth of a roaring fire. Closing the door behind him, he stamped his feet to restore the circulation and glanced around. The inn was empty of guests, or so it seemed. Then a small, dark-featured and smiling woman appeared from another door. A tall, hook-nosed man with dark suspicious eyes followed her.
‘Good evening, stranger. You are late on the road,’ he said, without much warmth.
Eadulf took off his cloak and saw the couple exchange a glance as they perceived he was a religious.
‘I am not sure of the road at all,’ he confessed, moving unbidden closer to the fire. ‘I have a horse outside,’ he added.
The man nodded, frowning a little.
‘I will attend to it, Brother. By your accent, I gather that you are a Saxon.’
‘I am. I am journeying to the abbey of Coimán.’
The innkeeper shrugged. ‘Of course. There is no other religious foundation near here. If you follow the road southwards through these mountains, and across the plain beyond, passing the mountain range that you will see to your right — that is, to the west — you will come upon the abbey. It stands at the head of a large inlet. It is an easy ride from here. If you leave here after sunrise you will be there before midday.’
The innkeeper turned for the door while his wife offered food and drink. Eadulf stretched on a seat before the fire.
‘What place is this?’ he asked.
The woman continued to smile. It seemed her normal expression.
‘We call this the Inn of the Hill of the Stone Forts.’
‘Cnoc an gCaiseal?’ repeated Eadulf. ‘Has the name significance?’
The woman poured a beaker of corma.
‘In the hills above us there are many ancient forts of stone that were used in the ancient times.’
‘What are these mountains called?’
‘Sléibhte Ghleann an Ridire.’
Eadulf frowned. ‘Mountains of the Valley of the Warriors?’ he repeated.
‘In ancient times gods and warriors fought one another in these mountains,’ she declared solemnly.
Eadulf decided not to pursue the matter.
‘Do you have many travellers passing through here?’
‘A fair number, Brother.’
‘A week or so ago, would a herbalist with his wife and two babies in a wagon have passed this way?’
The door slammed as her husband returned. He was looking at Eadulf in suspicion.
‘Why do you ask?’ he demanded. There was a defensive tone in his voice.
Eadulf smiled easily. ‘They passed through Cashel some days ago and I am interested in catching up.’
‘As my wife says, many people pass through here and we cannot remember them all.’
There was little point in pursuing a conversation that was not welcome.
‘No matter,’ Eadulf said, dismissing the subject. ‘I take it you have a bed for the night and are able to take care of my horse?’
‘You horse is already stabled and my son is giving the beast a rub down and will feed her. I have brought your saddle bag in, Brother.’ He produced the bag and placed it beside Eadulf.
‘Thank you, innkeeper. I will take another bowl of your wife’s excellent stew and most certainly another beaker of corma’
The man went to fetch the drink while his wife filled another dish with the stew and placed it before him. As she did so, bending down to set the plate on the table, she whispered: ‘The people you seek did pass this way about a week ago. They told me that they planned to stay awhile at the abbey of Coimán so you might yet catch up with them there.’ She grimaced apologetically. ‘My husband is old-fashioned and thinks that a traveller’s business is his own.’
The innkeeper came across with the corma and looked suspiciously at them.
‘I was just complimenting your wife on this stew,’ Eadulf assured him. ‘I was trying to pry her secret from her.’
The innkeeper sniffed in disapproval as he put down the drink.
‘You are kind to us, Brother. However, we would soon be out of business if we told passing strangers all our secrets.’
‘Then I shall not trouble you further except for a bed after I have eaten,’ replied Eadulf solemnly.
It was the waiting that irritated Fidelma. She could hear the voice of her old mentor, the Brehon Morann, intoning, ‘The person who prevails is the person who is patient, Fidelma.’ It had always been her major fault, if fault it were. ‘Impatience,’ she had once told the old judge, ‘is a sign that we have not resigned ourselves to mere hope of a solution but to its pursuit. To say, let us wait and see what fate provides, is no virtue. I would rather be doing something than sitting in inactive expectation.’ Brehon Morann had shaken his head sadly. ‘Learn patience, Fidelma, when patience is needed. Be impetuous and restless when that is needed. Above all, learn to differentiate between the need for either, for it is said that those who do not understand when patience is a virtue have no wisdom.’
The morning after Eadulf ’s departure, Fidelma had risen with a thousand thoughts cascading through her mind. For the rest of the day, following the departure of the Uí Fidgente chieftains, she had wandered the palace, pacing nervously, unable to settle to anything. Nothing distracted her from the worries that flooded her mind. Even old Brother Conchobar had not returned and Brehon Dathal was growing impossible. She found herself moving irritably from one room to another, from one place to the next. Now, as she rose to face a new day, she realised she could not go through yet another period of inactive frustration.
She went to the chapel and was relieved that there was no one about. Taking a seat in a dark corner, she closed her eyes, feeling the silence encompassing her.
She tried to concentrate, to clear her mind, seeking refuge in the art of the dercad, the action of meditation by which countless generations of the ascetics of her people had achieved the state of sitcháin, or peace, quelling extraneous thoughts and mental irritations. She tried to relax and calm the riot of thoughts that troubled her mind. Fidelma had been a regular practitioner of the ancient art in times of stress. Yet it was a practice which many leading religious in the churches of the five kingdoms were now denouncing. Even the Blessed Patrick, a Briton who had been prominent in establishing the Faith here, had expressly forbidden some of the meditative forms of self-enlightenment. However, the dercad, while frowned upon, was not as yet proscribed.